


Life is what happens to you

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Babies, F/M, FWP, Fatherhood, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Pregnancy, because Combeferre would make the best dad, everyone would, ok?, ridiculous fluff, which means fluff without plot, written for Father's day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 09:52:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Combeferre had thrown his arms around trembling Éponine and pulled her closer, a hand comfortingly stroking her tangled hair, he had been quite certain that it was physically impossible for a man to feel more love than he did all this time, waiting outside the café in the rain for her to finish her shift, his heart racing as if he was a teenage boy and not a mature student of medicine, accepting Enjolras’ disapproving remarks and raised eyebrows every time he was late or absent minded in a meeting, thinking he deserved them, after all he was Combeferre, not Marius, or Grantaire. He was a committed revolutionary who believed in science and progress…</p><p>Nine months later, when he held the tiny baby in his arms, and stared at those watery brown eyes for the first time, he found that many  things were actually physically possible.</p><p>(Or les Amis becoming parents one after the other, written for Father's day.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beautiful girl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GrantaireandHisBottle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrantaireandHisBottle/gifts).



> Written for Father's day.  
> Because Combeferre, Joly and Bossuet would make the best daddies ever.  
> The title is from John lennon's song, Beautiful Boy, written for his son, Sean.

He had always been the calm and collected one, he had always been the voice of wisdom and composure. He knew what to do, most of the times, at least, he gave the best advice and he was the most responsible one.

 

Though when he entered the apartment that day, only to find Éponine kneeled on the floor in front of the toilet, muttering swears between her vomitting, the cheap makeup she used to wear creating dark streams of tears on her cheeks, he most definitely didn’t feel that responsible.

 

Nine months later, when he held the tiny baby in his arms, and stared at those watery brown eyes for the first time, he most definitely didn’t feel wise, calm or collected. He felt at loss, he felt his arms shaking and his heart hammering in his ears, and wise he most definitely wasn’t. He was bewitched.

 

When Combeferre had thrown his arms around trembling Éponine and pulled her closer, a hand comfortingly stroking her tangled hair, he had been quite certain that it was impossible for a man to feel more love than he did all this time, waiting outside the café in the rain for her to finish her shift, his heart racing as if he was a teenage boy and not a mature student of medicine, accepting Enjolras’ disapproving remarks and raised eyebrows every time he was late or absent minded in a meeting, thinking he deserved them, after all he was Combeferre, not Marius, or Grantaire. He was a committed revolutionary who believed in science and progress…

 

But no, Combeferre was a scientist and a revolutionary who happened to love with all his being, and he was convinced that it was physically impossible for a man to love more than he loved Éponine all the time that he waited patiently for her to feel the same way, his heart aching together with her own every time Marius ignored her, to love more than he loved the way she threw her head back when she laughed, the way she nervously bit her fingernails, the way she swore under her breath, the way her moods changed dramatically as time passed, the fact that she became a mother to her brother before she even turned twenty, her independence and all her imperfections: the thin wrists poking out of huge, old shirts, the dark circles under her eyes –even though he would never forget how beautiful she looked when she rested and relaxed for a couple of days that time they had all gone to the sea, the frizzy, tangled hair and the bony shoulders pressing uncomfortably against his body every time they slept together.

 

He had grown to discover that there was limitless space in his heart for everything he loved: for his friends, for art, for science, for progress, for her and for their unborn child, the child neither of them had known they wanted in the beginning.

 

She had been terrified, furious, angry with the both of them. He had let her blame him: after all he was always the responsible one. How could he have allowed such a thing to happen to them? He had let her apologize. It wasn’t his fault. But what would they do? He had let her cry and held her close.

 

“Look at us. Look at _me_. I’m not suitable for raising a child. I am… I am fuckin’ damned! Look at my mother, look at my family, my previous relationships, all my wrong choices!”

 

He had placed kisses on her forehead. “Exactly, look at you. Look at your family. And then back at you, raising Gavroche, helping him with school, keeping a daytime job, studying during the night… You won’t do the same mistakes your parents did. Hell, you won’t do the same mistakes _you_ once did. You can do it. But of course it’s up to you… I will support your every decision.”

 

“What do you want?”

 

What did he want, really? What could be that strange feeling in his stomach, that sudden warmth inside him? What did he want? He was the responsible one, wasn’t he? Yet he had no idea of what was happening to him and of what he should do.

“I want that child,” he had whispered, “only if you want it.”

 

It was only sometimes that he lost his faith, when he returned home late at night after his shifts at the hospital and realized that he didn’t have a steady job yet, it was when he realized that she had to keep working even when pregnant to help them, it was when he thought that they already had Gavroche who needed his time with them, who needed to be educated and taken care of. It was when he showed up late at the meetings because she was hungry, or angry, or crying, or emptying the contents of her stomach in the toilet. It was all about Enjolras worried glances that pierced him like knives, it was the pangs of guilt when he thought he wasn’t dedicated to their cause anymore.

 

But then he wondered what exactly was _his_ cause. Why couldn’t he help people around him while bringing a new life in the world at the same time? He had spent too much time thinking about what he should and what he shouldn’t do with his life. He had spent too much time planning, organizing, making lists and putting things in boxes. He had spent too much time wanting to change the world, to help people around him, too much time sharing everyone’s pain in a hospital, too much time studying and advising his friends.

 

For one, selfish time in his life, he wanted to love. He wished to love unconditionally, without limits and without anything to stop him, love in the way he read about in his beloved books, in the way philosophers talked about, in the way artists portrayed it in their work. Love wasn’t so selfish a thing after all, was it?

 

And Bahorel would tease them, thinking of all the possible bad traits the child could inherit: the horrible eyesight and the bad temper and the weakness for chocolate; Jehan would smile dreamily at the idea of the expected child and would get inspired to write about it, Feuilly and Grantaire would help Éponine paint the nursery, all three of them in ridiculous ‘90s dungarees and Courfeyrac would catch them all in his camera, causing a moody Éponine who thought she was fat –even though she was tinier than any pregnant woman Combeferre had ever seen in the hospital- to chase him around with a paintbrush. With paint on it.

 

At those times Combeferre could only stare at them all, smile and feel reassured that their decision had been the right one.

 

And then, there were the nights when he’d play on the piano and she’d sit on the big piano seat and rest her head on his lap, and he’d get completely lost in the music as his fingers would caress the keys, and he’d feel her sigh contentedly against him. It was on such a night, that she’d mumbled that the baby had kicked her, probably hearing the music, and he’d rested his hand on her round stomach, feeling the movement of his unborn daughter breathlessly.

 

One night he returned from his shift and found Éponine cursing him and shouting to him to make it stop. His heart had skipped a beat. The time had come.

 

The rest was lost in a blur of balloons, Courfeyrac’s photos, Jehan’s excitement, Joly’s worrying and Éponine’s cries. And when they’d called him to see his daughter, he had completely forgotten how to breathe. In all honesty, every single organ of his body had forgotten how to function properly, even though he knew that was anatomically impossible, until he held the tiny bundle in his arms and heard it breathing slowly.

 

That was when he fell in love with his daughter. With the curled lips, the soft cheeks, the tiny feet, moving spasmodically, the tinier fingers, wrapping around his thumb, the few tufts of dark hair on her head, the long eyelashes and the fragile round head.

 

She opened her eyes: they were chocolate brown, but there were no wonders. His and Éponine’s eyes had the same color, only hers were a tad darker. And when those eyes stared at his own, he knew that his heart was racing madly in his chest, and the baby could feel it as much as it felt the warmth of his body against it.

 

He turned his face to find Éponine awake in the bed, looking exhausted but serene, a word he wouldn’t easily use to describe her. She smiled softly. He walked towards her, and held the baby out to her. Her eyes locked in his pleadingly, reminding him of the scared, lonely child he once met, seeking for reassurance. “Tell me we can do it,” she muttered hoarsely.

 

He pressed his lips on her chapped ones. “She has your eyes,” he said, even though their eyes were the same, “nothing can go wrong.”

 

He got used to his new life easily, even though it was really hard to get used to waking up next to the two most important people in his life, Éponine, sometimes sleeping peacefully, some others drooling on the pillow with her mouth open, and the tiny baby, sleeping on its back, small hands curled into fists, pink lips slightly parted, as the moonlight entered the window, washing the three of them in its glory.

 

He found himself daydreaming like a child, thinking of all the things he’d teach her, of all the games they’d play together, of all the books he’d read to her.

 

But for now holding her was enough. He could spend hours lying on the couch, with the baby sleeping on its belly, rested on his chest. It was smaller than his two hands together, and he rested one soothingly on its smooth back. He could spend hours like that.

 

Gavroche was extremely excited to become an uncle at such a young age, and he had grown rather protective over the baby, even though Combeferre wasn’t exactly sure about which was worse a choice for a lullaby, with Gavroche’s off tune voice: The Rolling Stones's satisfaction, or The Phantom of the Opera. Maybe the choice of the latter resulted in finally settling on Christine for his daughter’s name, apart from the fact that his mother shared it.

 

Their friends would visit almost everyday to help him and Éponine with the baby. Courfeyrac and Jehan looked mesmerized at the sight of the tiny person, the latter, as well as Cosette, spent hours placing kisses on the baby’s soft hair. Marius and surprisingly Bahorel looked way too scared to attempt to touch it, as for Joly, he started visiting after he and Bossuet recovered from their deathly cold and he was sure that the baby wouldn’t catch it. Feuilly had already sewn a beautiful kilt for the nursery, as for Grantaire, he found immense amusement in having his finger caught between the little girl’s ones.

 

Only Enjolras would stand aside, cautious, careful, a reserved smile on his face and sometimes just a worried expression, watching them from a distance.

 

“Maybe he’ll take an example from you now, and finally consent in the idea of having our own love child,” Grantaire had once said teasingly to Combeferre, receiving a package of diapers on the head, “or a dog, at least!”

 

Combeferre had raised his eyes and they had met Enjolras’. Combeferre’s chocolate brown eyes always had the talent to comfort people and make them feel at ease, and Enjolras had been way too familiar with this soothing ability all these years of being his best friend. At that moment, the image simply seemed right. Combeferre was at his natural environment in a protest, shouting and handing pamphlets, or making fiery speeches, but one could definitely have more than one natural environments. Christine looked right in Combeferre’s arms. In fact she looked… beautiful.

 

“I am… happy for you,” he had walked closer to his friend, feeling the acceptance in his eyes, and taking a seat beside him and Grantaire on the sofa, “I know you can do it.”

 

Éponine was watching them from the arm of the sofa. Combeferre’s smile had grown even wider, his chocolate eyes even warmer. “Thank you,” he had said softly, “do you want to hold her?”

 

The panic in Enjolras’ eyes couldn’t have escaped their notice, but he soon nodded.

 

Combeferre carefully handed the baby with the curious wide open eyes to his best friend. He noticed Enjolras’ breathing calming as he found the right position to hold the baby. It truly was a stunning image, what with the gold locks surrounding his flushed face, and the little girl staring at him, waving the microscopic fists in the air. Enjolras grinned softly. "She is going to become such a revolutionary!"

 

He couldn’t have asked for a better gift than the reconciliation of Enjolras and Christine. His eyes locking with Éponine’s, he decided he couldn’t ask for anything else at all.


	2. Beautiful boy

The heat that summer was insufferable, and being nine months pregnant most definitely didn’t help the situation. Musichetta had always been quite moody, especially when Joly and Bossuet had carefully thrown her vegetable soup in the plants to prevent themselves from eating it, or when they left hair in the bathtub, and especially when they hid the remote control so that she could not watch the Hannibal series: it did a noticeable harm to Joly’s sanity.

 

But now, the state of her temper was ten times worse. She was spread upon her favorite couch, in a short dress and a huge baby bump two times her size, as she was such a petite pretty girl, her appearance particularly deceiving for her temper. Her ginger curls were covered in sweat, and she swore she could kill Joly for turning the air conditioning off, exclaiming that “recycled air would be bad for the baby’s lungs.” In fact if she wasn’t too hot and heavy, she would find amusement in chasing them both around the house, just for the sake of the situation, to punish them for being bump-free and classily walk around, controlling her life. Or at least the temperature of the room.

 

She loved Joly with all her being, but she could easily tie him on a chair and torture him with endless Justin Bieber on repeat at the moment. He had taken the responsibility of cooking, because they all remembered what had happened the last time they’d let Bossuet anywhere near the kitchen, and that meant she spent her days with grains and beans. Apparently Joly had done a huge research concerning pregnancy-healthy nutrition. Thankfully, Bahorel and Feuilly were always willing to provide her with some chocolate and pizza when Joly was busy doing his shifts at the hospital, and Bossuet who couldn’t bear seeing Musichetta suffering, would usually consent behind their boyfriend’s back. Sometimes Joly would realize, and he would give them a lecture about all the bad fat and conservatives in fast food, but the only word which Musichetta would catch was “fat” and they would have to spend the rest of the night trying to convince her how beautiful she was for the both of them.

 

Sometimes though she would return to her good old comforting self, after all she had always been some kind of Joly’s therapist, and she would comfort him at his panic attacks, as if he was the baby instead of the one she was expecting. He was extremely excited for her pregnancy and terrified at the same time. He casually mentioned at least five diseases that pregnant women and newborns could get daily, and he had even given the poor cat which he adored to Grantaire, because cat contact could become very dangerous during pregnancy. Musichetta missed the cat though she managed to get used to its absence. What she couldn’t get used to was Joly taking her pulse at least twice a day.

 

And then Joly got scared that he wouldn’t make a good father, that his shifts at the hospital would prevent him from picking up the child from school in time, that it would turn out to be dyslexic and that he would develop the summer-born syndrome which would prevent it from ever making a happy marriage.

 

Then Bossuet would patiently remind him that _he_ was dyslexic and perfectly awesome, as well as the fact that they weren’t married themselves and that the three of them weren’t exactly a conventional couple. Musichetta would lay his head on her stomach and stroke his hair, and he would eventually calm down and smile dreamily.

 

That, until he’d sneeze and throw himself up, deciding to move out of the house and crash on Jehan’s couch in order to not let her catch his deathly flu and harm the baby.

 

The pregnancy had been unplanned, and they didn’t know whose child it was. There was a way to find out, but Musichetta hated the idea, and her two men had come to agree with her. They would all raise the kid together, and neither of them wanted the one to be more special in any way. Why would it matter, who was the biological father, when the three of them would give everything to that child? It could inherit Bossuet’s bad luck and baldness or Joly’s proneness to various illnesses and they still wouldn’t allow the realizations to make the two of them feel different towards the baby. Although Musichetta was sure that when she was absent or asleep, and the two men were together in bed, they would tease each other on the lines of “It’s mine!” “No, it’s mine!” “Mine!” “Fine, yours, give it your bad lungs and scoliosis! You don’t want him to get bald at twenty!” “No, yours, my poor son can’t be an invalid!” “Yours!” “No, yours!”

 

When Musichetta went into labor, Joly’s knees abandoned him and it cost Grantaire a two bottles of wine to make him stop shaking, together with Jehan rubbing soothing circles on his back. As for Bossuet, he had tried his best to remain calm, but he only managed to become clumsier and trip on his own feet twice on their way from the car to the hospital.

 

When the doctor came out and asked who the father was in the crowded corridor occupied by all their friends, Joly and Bossuet both shouted “Me!”

 

When they got to see their son, hanging from Musichetta’s breast, Bossuet forgot how to speak and Joly burst into tears.

 

During their first days at home, Cosette came to help because Musichetta from the birth was weak and Joly was weaker. Joly was afraid of holding his tiny son, which apparently turned out to be Bossuet-bald with Musichetta’s green eyes, therefore they couldn’t understand whose he was from the eyes. He was extremely afraid of dropping it, but it was Bossuet who firstly managed to drop the baby, fortunately on the bed. Joly refused to speak to him for a whole day after that.

 

The three of them fell in love at first sight with the baby. There was one word to describe Joly in his polished plaid shirts and combed hair when he held the baby, his body still shaking slightly and an excited smile on his face. Courfeyrac found nothing more precious to follow with his camera, at least until Joly would allow Bossuet to hold the baby again, because Bossuet’s awkward smile and the two bald heads in the picture could only be considered equally adorable, if not more.

 

And Musichetta made the most beautiful mother they had ever seen, in her long hippie skirts and the frilly blouses, laying between them with the baby sleeping peacefully on her breast.

 

The four of them would lie on the bed for hours, Bossuet smiling in his sleep on Musichetta’s lap, completely unable to believe the change of his luck: he had a boyfriend, a girlfriend and a wonderful, bald son. Such things didn’t happen to normal people, let alone to Bossuet. When Musichetta would fall asleep too, Joly would stay awake, his head on the pillow, facing the little baby’s head, his hand stroking the small, soft back gently, his lips occasionally trailing kisses on his son’s chubby arm.

 

Even when he grew a little to resemble more the one or the other, they didn’t care. Little Dominique had two caring fathers, and he was three times loved.

 

Musichetta had three boys, all of them such babies, all of them incredibly perfect.

 

Jolllly was merrier than ever, proudly strolling the pram in the street, as Jehan noticed.

 

And Bossuet was the luckiest daddy in the world.


	3. Every day in every way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire could spend the whole day with her, tickling the back her chubby knees and stroking her dimples with his thumb. That time he spoke seriously, without really thinking about it. “Have you ever considered having children of your own?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Months after the first chapters I decided I wasn't done and I needed some E/R daddies in my life. I sincerely apologize for the ridiculousness of this.
> 
> Title still from the song "Beautiful boy".

The first time he mentioned it he was teasing. His best friend, Éponine, had just had her daughter and he couldn’t stop staring at her, finally happy, glowing, beautiful, having gotten what she always deserved, and they looked stunning, curled up with Combeferre on the couch, the small bundle between them, waving tiny fists and feet in the air. Suddenly he knew he needed this, he started needing this from the moment he held the baby in his arms and cood at her, he knew he’d always been broken, messed up, but he still needed this, he didn’t care whether it was right or wrong but somehow he fell in love with the idea as much as he fell in love with Éponine’s daughter. When he talked about it, he received a pack of diapers on his head. They’d been together for two years at that point.

 

Then he saw Joly fretting over his newborn, insanely enthusiastic and worried like hell that his bald tiny son would catch a million diseases and demanding from all his friends to wear masks before holding him, and Bossuet running behind him, a huge shaking smile on his face. His eyes met with Enjolras’ who was holding the baby in his arms for a second and then quickly moved away.

 

The second time he mentioned it, Christine was five months old and they were looking after her so that Éponine and Combeferre could have a night of proper sleep. She was in her straw basket, gurgling and covering her toys with saliva. She was precious, Grantaire could spend the whole day with her, tickling the back her chubby knees and stroking her dimples with his thumb. That time he spoke seriously, without really thinking about it. “Have you ever considered having children of your own?”

 

Enjolras loved Christine as much as Grantaire did. He loved her very much. She already reminded him of Combeferre… but that didn’t mean he could have children of his own, he just… couldn’t. He’d never thought of having children, they never seemed to fit anywhere between his activism, his studies, his career and his life with Grantaire. “No,” he says with a trembling voice, turning his head away. He bites his lip until he draws blood. “Have you?”

 

“I have,” he hears his lover’s voice, and suddenly Grantaire doesn’t sound like a cynic or a drunkard anymore. His voice is tender, so tender as he only ever speaks to _him,_ and soft, so soft and serious. “I want a child, Enjolras.”

 

Enjolras’ breath hitched on his throat, he felt panic filling his head. “We can’t, Grantaire. Not now. We’re… we’re fighting for a cause. We are young. Children are not for us. We have Christine, we have Dominique. Two children are already too much in the group.”

 

Grantaire’s heart sank a bit but he understood and didn’t mention it again. However the children in the group would soon stop being only two, as Cosette got pregnant not long after, and gave birth to the most beautiful twin boys with rosy cheeks and blond tufts of soft hair, driving Marius ecstatic. Enjolras stared at Grantaire helping a tired Cosette –her pregnancy had been difficult and she almost lost one of the children, therefore now she needed to recover, but she still looked like the most angelic personification of motherhood- and it felt strange when he noticed the same peaceful smile on his face as he fed one of the babies with the bottle.

 

The third time he mentioned it, Christine was eighteen months old. She had grown to resemble her mother more than her father even though she looked like him: she was a true child-hurricane. She ran around with one dark pigtail always hanging lower than the other, throwing vases and plates and breaking them (“That’s ok, it was grandma Thernadier’s anyway”), she loved playing with Grantaire’s colors and occasionally leaving her marks on the walls and she had the habit of leaving –adorable, in Grantaire and Combeferre’s opinion- high pitched shrieks whenever she saw little Dominique or the Pontmercy twins. She only calmed down when Combeferre read to her, when she’d sit on his lap with wide open eyes and suck all the stories and the fairytales in. She adored Grantaire, they would often make a tent from old chairs and bed sheets and play inside. She could say a few words and “R” had been one of her first. That day Enjolras came back from work early and she heard the door opening from underneath their “castle”. She ran to the doorway clumsily, her little feet thumping on the wooden floor, and threw her arms around his legs. “Uncle ‘Joras!” she shrieked, with a toothy smile.

 

Grantaire peeked his head outside the tent and his glance met with Enjolras’ startled one. “You would make such a great dad,” he breathed. Nobody had ever said that to him before, and he’d tried hard enough not to think of himself as a father up to this day. He just bent over and placed his hands under the toddler’s armpits, raising her and tossing her in the air. He didn’t reply and Grantaire didn’t mention it again.

 

What Grantaire didn’t know was that Enjolras could hardly force the thought out of his head anymore. It was a fact that most of the time, especially when Feuilly and Bahorel were absent, prams, Disney, potty training (much to his dismay) and breastfeeding (even more now that Musichetta was pregnant and considerably moody again) would somehow make their way into the conversation even during meetings. He wanted to believe that this very fact annoyed him, but maybe it didn’t so much anymore. He found himself worrying when he heard about Dominique’s latest injury –even though he _was_ both Joly and Bossuet’s son- smiling at the sight of Christine’s latest _abstract_ drawing and found himself thinking of the books he’d convince the twins to read when they’d grow up. He was involved in an extensive social analysis of the movie _Brave_ with Combeferre, Jehan and Bahorel while Christine watched it -and then jumped from couch to couch, much to Joly’s terror.

 

When Dominique fell sick and gave the flu to Joly and Bossuet, who were immediately bed-ridden, he and Grantaire had to take care of them so that pregnant Musichetta could stay at Feuilly’s in order to not catch it too. They stayed up all night, looking after the squirming toddler –which apparently was of less trouble than his _dying_ daddies-, holding him and placing kisses on his head –which wasn’t bald anymore. And at some point, Grantaire heard Enjolras _singing,_ like he’d never heard him before, in the softest yet most off tune voice he could imagine, and all he would know how to sing was _La Marseillaise_ in a lullaby tone, but it still was adorable, and Enjolras looked so beautiful, lying in the faint light on a couch with a sleeping one-year-old clinging on his stomach and stroking his hair awkwardly.

 

It was the way Grantaire changed when he was around children. After more than three years of living together, Enjolras had managed to put his confusing thoughts and sentiments in order, and realize that he _loved_ the man, he loved him more than anything. Seeing him so happy, serene and responsible around the little ones oddly charmed him. Somehow he started needing this, he needed this to feel complete.

 

It was him who mentioned it for the fourth time, about a year later. Grantaire was playing a show with puppets –about a young, pretty revolutionary imprisoned in a castle guarded by Hogwarts’ Giant Squid, apparently- to the twins who looked with wide open eyes and mouths. “Do you still want a child?” he almost croaked, causing the twins to turn their heads to his direction without shutting their mouths (God _how_ they reminded him of Pontmercy sometimes).

 

The puppet dressed in red fell, so did the Squid (a kitchen sponge). “I’ll always want a child, Apollo.”

 

Enjolras quickly rushed to his side and kneeled on the floor beside him, grasping his shoulders. “I’m ready,” he croaked.

 

A stunned smile appeared on Grantaire’s face as Enjolras pulled him closer and pressed their lips together.

 

Needless to say, the twins’ mouths kept hanging open.

 

They immediately settled for adoption. It was hard for Grantaire in the beginning. All those numb, dark faces of the sad, abandoned children they saw broke his heart and reminded him of his lonely childhood. He couldn’t choose, he wanted to save all of them. He broke down for a few days. He said he couldn’t do it, he would fuck up like he always did. Parenthood wasn’t for him. Enjolras held him and planted kisses on his shoulders, whispering he would make the best father in the world.

 

It was him who first fell in love with a toddler, a pale little girl of two years in a dull olive green dress and a grey cardigan, with dull short black hair surrounding her face, not conventionally sweet and pretty for a small child, but with eyes full of emotion. She reminded him of Grantaire so much that it hurt, it hurt that he couldn’t throw his arms around her and hold her to his chest it hurt that he couldn't call her his yet. He asked for her name. It was Renée. His eyes immediately met with Grantaire’s blue ones, visualizing the small **R** tattoo behind his lover's ear.

 

It didn’t take long for them to be validated and take her home. They learnt that her mother had died from HIV a year ago, Renée had time to meet her and remembered her. The loss in such a crucial age had certainly affected her behavior.

 

She seemed lost, scared. She cried a little but much less than expected for her age. They barely ever managed to take a stammering word from her lips: her thumb was always in her mouth. She sat quietly in her room and hid behind Jehan’s legs most of the time. She couldn’t get used neither to Enjolras or Grantaire but they were patient. Not even Courfeyrac or Cosette seemed to make her feel at ease, even though they clearly had their way with children. She was afraid of Bahorel even though he adored her. Apart from Jehan, only Combeferre seemed to make her speak the little words she could say, but no one was surprised to see that. When she was first introduced to Christine, the little girl with the bouncing pigtails let a small shriek and brought all her toys to throw them in front of Renée’s skinny legs. Enjolras and Grantaire watched cautiously from the other side of the room, certain that she would get scared. Indeed, at first she hid her face in Jehan’s sweater, but soon after that she gave the most adorable toothless smile they had ever seen from her, and shyly took a broken train wagon in her little, curious hands.

 

She was mature for her age, if that could be said for a two-year-old. Enjolras and Grantaire gave her space and peace from the very beginning, and did their best to make her new environment comfortable. She seemed to love to spend time with Musichetta’s new son so they let her, she could spend hours staring at his pram and rocking him gently with all the strength of her frail little body. Enjolras carefully took a seat by her two weeks after they got her and, unusually excited, she showed him the baby. “Look, he’s thleeping!” she whispered, bringing a finger to her lips. Enljoras leaned forward and smiled at her, his thumb stroking her soft cheek. It took a few seconds that only their breathing could be heard. He could see her thinking very hard, and finally she leaned on his knees and allowed him to hold her and place numerous kisses on her dark head and pale face. He couldn’t even count the ways she reminded him of Grantaire. “You are my little girl,” he whispered, and she nodded as if agreeing to their secret.

 

As for Grantaire, he was painting in the room that served as his atelier one day. He didn’t even hear her quiet steps as she cautiously entered the room, sucking her thumb. When he finally noticed her presence, he kneeled on the floor and spread his arms. She sucked her thumb noisily for a little while, and then gave Grantaire the best moment of his life after his first kiss: a wide, mischievous smile appeared behind her thumb as the corners of her mouth upturned, and she ran to his embrace, covering both of them with paint. He raised her in the air and they twirled around. He let her dig her fingers in his colors and ruin his excellent canvas. She wiped some red and green on his beard and giggled. “I love you,” he whispered in her ear, and she threw her thin arms around his neck, clinging on his t-shirt.

 

It took another week to call him “papa”, and ten days for Enjolras. After another week, she started walking in their bedroom and climbing on their bed, curling between their sleepy figures and sucking her thumb. It took a month to get closer to all their friends. Of course Enjolras didn’t lose time to start reading to her, though Combeferre thankfully adviced his friend to save philosophy and history for later. Another week later, on Enjolras’ birthday, Grantaire woke her up early and they baked together. They surprised a sleepy Enjolras in his bed with cake, both covered in flour and chocolate. Enjolras’ eyes met with Grantaire, and he slowly leaned forward to place a romantic peck on his lips. Renée, more demanding than both her fathers were, pulled their t-shirts to drag their attention. They broke the kiss, ashamed and flushed like teenagers, and lowered their eyes to her.

 

 

She curled between them, and behind her thumb mumbled “I love you.”


	4. It's getting better and better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Jehan stared at his friends, his partner and his daughter, his own daughter, who called him “daddy” and told stories to herself when nobody heard, inspired by himself, he knew that he’d always have more love to give.

After they’d made love had been the best and the worst occasion for Courfeyrac to say it, between sighs and feverish kisses on Jehan’s beautiful pale throat and collarbone. Enjolras and Grantaire had just adopted Renée. “She didn’t let go of you all evening.”

 

Jehan turned his head and faced his boyfriend, who was smiling warmly like he always did, feeling his own heart skipping a beat. “I love that child,” he smiled softly, his fingertips trailing circles on his chest. “I mean, I adore all the children but I _love_ that child.”

 

“You were born to have children.”

 

His fingers freeze. “What do you mean?”

 

“I don’t know what kept us from discussing adoption all these years. We were the first ones to put our shit together. We were the first ones who always obsessed over little ones. What kept us from it?” Courfeyrac had a talent of making everything seem so simple and natural.

 

Jehan turned around again, pressing his back to Courfeyrac’s chest, his fingers now playing absent-mindedly with the sheets. “Children are not a decision taken like that, Courf. This… this would be hard for the child. I don’t think I could be good enough… I mean, I usually forget to feed myself, I’m lost in my own world, in another era, sometimes _I_ feel like the child. We’re not exactly what society considers as a proper family.”

 

Courfeyrac sat up and rested on his elbow. “You can’t mean because we are _gay_! You were the one who always cared less about your sexual orientation and embraced it beautifully! You… you never cared for what people said… Even Enjolras…”

 

Jehan’s tattoo hand covered Courfeyrac’s own soothingly. “I know. But I’m still scared.”

 

Courfeyrac wrapped an arm around his torso, pulling him closer. “Scared about what?”

 

“I love you so much,” he muttered, nuzzling his nose in the crook of Courfeyrac’s neck, “so much that it feels like enough for several lifetimes. I love our friends’ children and our friends themselves, if I ever had a child I don’t know if it would feel right to only give him a share of my emotions. I’m… I’m afraid of loving anyone else as much as I love _you.”_

Courfeyrac chuckled softly, running his fingers through his lover’s loose ginger hair. “Jean Prouvaire afraid to love. Now _that’s_ new,” he teased. “No one I know could have so much love to give, simply, genuinely and passionately in the way you do. I mean it when I say it. I _know_ that papa Combeferre has raised the standards too high, but you will make a wonderful parent.”

 

Jehan couldn’t hold a smile back, and they remained silent for a while. “I want a child, Courf,” he finally whispered.

 

“I know you do, my flower,” grinned Courfeyrac. “I know you do.”

 

Grantaire and Feuilly helped Jehan paint the small office in their apartment with hot air balloons, princes and dragons on the wall. He was afraid. As much as he wanted it he needed to postpone it for a while, until he’d feel completely ready. Éponine took him one night and talked to him. He understood. Éponine and Grantaire had been his best friends for years, both broken, with a dark past and dead hopes. Now she was glowing. Responsible, young, beautiful and in love with Combeferre and her daughter. He could do it too.

 

Her name was Maya. She was a little older than Christine, she had smooth, chocolate skin, full lips and the most beautiful, huge dark eyes. They fell immediately in love with her and she did too. She was very affectionate and gentle in her three years of age, always smiling and saying “Thank you” when she was given something, like an adult. All her hair was parted in thin frizzy braids which Jehan loved to decorate with fake flowers. When she asked him to cut real flowers he told her stories of how they were alive and knew how to love and to hurt. She adored listening to his stories and she demanded that he’d come up with his own instead of telling the classic fairytales. Her father’s imagination madly fascinated her.

 

Courfeyrac immediately introduced her to his pranks, and despite her peaceful nature, she loved throwing plans with her daddy against his friends. Marius was their favorite victim who’d frequently wake up with dyed pink eyebrows or a thunderbolt on his forehead, causing the twins and Cosette to burst out laughing at his utter confusion. Jehan would try to stop Courfeyrac, but Maya’s laughter was so delightful he’d treasure every second.

 

Enjolras often raised an eyebrow and said they’d spoil her. Every Saturday they’d visit the Luxembourg garden after buying her ice cream, and Jehan would spend the day showing her the different species flowers while Courfeyrac yawned  

 

When summertime came, Bahorel and Feuilly would usually accompany them, and the four of them would play with a ball, being incredibly noisy while Jehan sat under a tree in his cutoffs and hippie sunglasses, smiling with his book, sometimes accompanied by Combeferre and Christine. Courfeyrac would always cheat and wink to his daughter when the others didn’t look, and if they won he’d raise her on his shoulders and cheer, ignoring the frowns of some elder people who seeked for peace and silence. Then she’d jump on the ground and run to Jehan and Éponine who’d have their arms open for her.

 

Courfeyrac had been right all along. As Jehan stared at his friends, his partner and his _daughter,_ his own daughter, who called him “daddy” and told stories to herself when nobody heard, inspired by himself, he knew that he’d always have more love to give. 


End file.
